


The World Grows Old

by greensweater



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, M/M, and neither is cas, be warned-my dean is not nice or heterosexual, if the show can pull crazy deus ex machina shit then so can i, the femslash endverse au you didn't know you wanted
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2019-05-25 16:49:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14981378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greensweater/pseuds/greensweater
Summary: Sam says yes to Lucifer, and the world goes to hell. But this time, they have Anna. They have a weapon. They have hope, for the first time in years. All they have to do is pull off an impossible mission and save the world. What the hell. They've done it before.





	1. Chapter 1: Found

The air smells like sickness. That’s the first thing everyone notices when they go out on patrols far away from the relatively clean air of Camp Chitaqua, especially in Sector 8. Some of the soldiers call it this part of Kansas City “the Jungle.” It’s an apt description. You have to move carefully through the abandoned buildings, hand on your gun, always on the lookout for falling rubble, for rabid animals; for _them_. Although this is Jo’s first assignment in the Jungle, she’s heard about it more times than she can count from tired soldiers seeking a quiet place to lay out their troubles, along with a little bit of rationed alcohol. (Ellen Harvelle’s reputation as an excellent host hadn’t died out with the onset of the Apocalypse. Hunters remember more than you would think, especially when those memories include good food, beer, and conversation.) She’s not really surprised by the level of absolute destruction; she’d seen pictures of Detroit and figured nothing could be worse than that. It smells worse here than she imagined, though. The scent of death lingers on everything, even the scant patches of weeds that sprinkle the site—ironic, as they seem to be the only living thing for miles.

 

Jo jumps at a light touch on her shoulder. 

 

“Whoa,” says Dean Winchester quietly. “Not a Croat, don’t worry.”

 

“Hey,” Jo exhales, frowning at him. “You _scared_ me.”

 

Dean draws his gun and points it at her head.

 

“Dean! Dean, what the hell are you doing?” she whisper-shouts, and ducks, because if Dean Winchester’s gone full-on Croat, then the whole base is _beyond_ fucked.

 

There’s a bang, and Jo squeezes her eyes shut. The body behind her falls with a thump. She whirls, training her gun on the figure lying motionless on the ground.

 

“A little too late for that.” Dean claps her on the shoulder. “Let’s get moving. You’re welcome, by the way,” he adds, already walking away, and obviously expecting her to follow.

 

“Fuck off,” she grumbles, still a bit shaky from her near-death experience. She trudges after him, shooting one last look at the dead monster behind her.

 

…

 

It’s fairly uneventful, as far as Jungle missions go; at least, it is at first.

 

“Run!” Dean shouts, as he shoots two Croats, fighting back-to-back with Risa. “I’ll hold them off—just go!”

 

Jo hesitates, then is pulled along by Ari. “Come on!” he pants, eyes flicking from her to the road ahead and back. His shirt is stained with sweat, the green camo darkening in patches. “What the hell are you doing?”

 

She bolts, keeping an eye out for Croats as she zigzags through rubble, vaults over pieces in her way, and clutches tight to her gun.

 

They slow when they reach an empty store, part of a tiny strip mall that boasts a Target, a drive-through Wendy’s, and a local chain called “Union Burger.” It’s been ransacked, of course; they’ve had to expand farther and farther to find supplies, and they’re not the only humans left in this part of Kansas. Ari rubs his temples, shoulders slumping. She eyes the pained set to his mouth with concern.

 

“You okay?” she asks, noting the way his hands shake, just slightly, as they massage his forehead. His eyes look rather bloodshot, which sets off a warning bell in her brain. 

 

“Yeah, I’m good.” He frowns, looking a little confused. “My head hurts.”

 

“Did you hit it on something?” Jo asks, and then she sees it: a gash on his neck, congealed blood drying around it. _Shit_.

 

“Ari,” she begins carefully. She’s been briefed, of course: shoot them immediately if they display any signs of the virus. But Ari’s her friend. He’d given her his last pack of saltine crackers when she had a bad stomach bug a few years ago. She told him dumb jokes over the campfire and they’d laughed for a whole fifteen minutes when Chuck had a breakdown over his missing toilet paper. He’d kissed her after a risky mission and she’d moved into his cabin a week later. In this world, friends are the rarest commodities, more so than even precious salt or toilet paper. She does not want to shoot one of the only ones she has left.

 

He raises his head, eyes… different, somehow. “Yes?” he says, quietly. Too quietly. Ari is never this quiet.

 

She’s hyperaware of how alone they are; she has no idea where Ari brought her. Even if she screams as loud as she can, nobody will hear her except Croats and cockroaches. And there’s nowhere to hide in the abandoned store; everyone knows Croats can sniff you out better than bloodhounds. Jo can feel her heart racing. She hopes he can’t hear it. “Do you feel alright?”

 

“Peachy,” he says, then whips his gun around to hit her on the head. She has the presence of mind to duck, but the butt barely misses her. He snarls, and she takes the momentary opportunity to train her gun on him. Her hands tremble.

 

“Put it down, Ari,” she says. “Now. Or I shoot.”

 

Ari laughs, and it’s so familiar a sound that she almost lowers her gun. Almost.

 

“You couldn’t shoot me,” he jeers. “Not me, not Ari. You could never pull the trigger. You’re too weak. Too soft.”

 

“Watch me,” she tells him, trying not to visibly panic. “Put. It. Down.”

 

He bares his teeth in a sort of smile-grimace. “I don’t think I will, sweetheart. You know what I’m gonna do instead? I’m going to rip out your liver and feed it to you. Then, I’m going to peel the skin from your body and make you _watch_ as I tie you up with it. I’ll pluck your eyeballs out next.” His smile spreads wider, eyes crinkling. “It’s going to be so fun to hear you scream.”

 

She shoots him. The crack of the bullet rips through her ears. He doesn’t make a sound, but he shudders violently, and she can see the blood staining his right shoulder through the thick green material of his jacket. 

 

“Oh, I was wrong,” he says, almost gleefully. “You do have the guts.”

 

And then thing that used to be Ari lunges at her, hands reaching for her throat, and she stumbles backwards, trying to get a hold on the knife strapped to her hip. She’s just a moment too slow. Ari ( _not Ari_ , she tells herself) grabs her by the neck and lifts her, far too easily for a human. She kicks, aiming for his crotch, but he dances out of the way, grip tightening, and she gasps in pain and shock, fingers limp on her knife… her knife! Jo almost smiles despite the constricting pain in her throat. Croats are strong and smart, but their bloodthirsty brains often forget the details. He could crush her throat with one twitch of his hand, but he’s playing with her, like a cat toying with a mouse.

 

 _I’m no mouse_ , she thinks, and, before he can react, brings the knife down on his arm.

 

The pressure leaves her throat for a split second as Ari reels, and she shakes her way free, lungs wheezing and head pounding. He doesn’t howl in pain, even though his forearm now has a deep gash in it, blood spurting onto the ground. The soil soaks it up, starving for any kind of liquid. Ari clamps his hand around his wound, baring his teeth and growling, a primal sound that prickles on the back of her neck.

 

She has to stop thinking of him as Ari.

 

He— _it_ —lunges for her, but she twists out of the way, stumbling backwards and scrabbling for her gun. The metal feels hot under her fingers. Her heart is racing and everything’s moving much too fast for her to have any sort of control over the situation. 

 

She fires. He crumples. It’s so silent and so quick that she barely registers it.

 

“No,” Jo breathes, stumbling forward and jamming her gun back in its holster with shaking fingers. She drops to her knees next to Ari’s motionless form. Checks his vitals. He’s dead. “Ari…” _Christ_. If before life had been moving too fast, everything now seems to be moving in slow motion.

 

“Shit.” She’s on the verge of tears, but she sniffs them back, wanting desperately to just give in to the throbbing ache in her chest and cry until she’s numb. It’s a luxury she can’t afford. 

 

Something thumps in the corner of the room, and she turns so fast she nearly falls over. There’s a small closet there, and something just moved inside. _Another fucking Croat? Are you kidding me?_ thinks Jo wearily, but she creeps towards the closet, gun ready and heart in her throat. This used to be one of her favorite parts of hunting: the anticipation, the thrill of it. The knowledge that she was _doing_ something, _being_ someone other than the fragile little girl everyone thought she was. It used to be exciting; it’s gotten old. Jo counts to three in her head, then throws open the door. A body falls out of it, crumpling to the ground and making Jo jump back in shock. It’s a woman with bright red hair, dressed in dark jeans and a green tank top. The woman’s not a Croat, that’s for sure—she's pretty pale, but there are no visible dark veins spidered across her neck. Still, Jo approaches her with caution. She kneels, brushing the woman’s hair out of her face and checking her vitals. Her skin isn’t cold, but that means nothing, due to the temperature. The woman also could have died recently. Jo presses her fingers to the woman’s neck, and there’s a pulse. Right there, beating under her fingers. She closes her eyes for a moment. It would have been so much easier if the woman had been dead.

 

“Jo!”

 

She startles, but it’s just Dean, bursting through the door and panting like he’d just run a marathon.

 

“Any broken skin?” he asks, a routine check. Instinct.

 

“No.”

 

He relaxes slightly, but keeps the gun trained on the woman. And then he sees Ari. 

 

“Oh.”

 

Jo tenses. “He’s dead, Dean. Turned Croat.”

 

He doesn’t press her, a small mercy Jo silently thanks him for. Instead, he cautiously approaches her, taking a closer look at the woman’s face. And his face turns _white_. Before Jo can ask him what the hell’s going on, he swears viciously and shoots the Croat sneaking up on them. There’s more at the door, a whole horde of them. Jo’s heart sinks. They’ve gotten out of shit like this before, but it hasn’t been pretty. There’s a good chance of one or both of them dying.

 

“Leave her!” Dean shouts, shooting a Croat in the head and spinning to glare at her. “We gotta go!”

 

He’ll force himself to sleep tonight, this new Dean born of desperation and scrabbling and hopelessness and _war_ , but she won’t, and that’s what makes her haul the woman up, struggling under the deadweight.

 

“Jesus—Jo, I said leave her!” Dean growls, hitting another Croat dangerously close to Jo’s head. “We can’t carry her and fight ‘em off too, you know that!”

 

Jo takes a labored step towards the door, then another. She’s been drilled on this exact scenario, but it’s so much harder to carry an actual person under fire rather than sandbags under her mother’s familiar bark of orders.

 

“Fucking _help_ me, Dean,” she says between gritted teeth, and somehow manages to avoid the dead Croat falling in her path.

 

“You’re supposed to actually follow orders once in a while, dammit,” Dean grouses, but, as she suspected he would, wraps his arm around the woman and helps hoist her out of the store. They run as best they can, taking care not to trip. At this point, falling would waste time they don’t have. 

 

It’s a sweltering day, and the sun beats down on their shoulders like an uncaring god. Sweat drips into Jo’s eyes and she curses, blinking furiously at the sting. Her lungs feel like someone’s taken a grater to them, but she tightens her grip on the woman’s side and forces herself to run just a little faster. They run for so long that eventually Jo loses track of how much time has passed. The pound of her feet on the cracked, dusty ground slowly turns into a rhythm, and it thumps in her ears in time with her heartbeat. Someone—or some _thing_ —screams, far out in the distance. Her legs are machines. Left. Right. Left. Right. It feels like this moment has condensed, has liquefied, into a snippet from a dream she can taste on her tongue, lasting only a split second and forever at the same time. Black spots appear at the edge of her vision. She’s going to pass out. She’s going to pass out and she’s going to die out here, and she’s going to prove everyone right. They were right about her—she doesn’t have the stamina, the guts, the grit. She can feel herself weakening. The roaring in her ears drowns out whatever Dean is shouting. _Dean_. He’s going to be so disappointed in her when she gets them both killed.

 

“—Jo! Jo!” Dean’s fingers snap in front of her eyes and she realizes that they’ve arrived at the gates. She sways on her feet, feeling the ocean in her ears subside. Dean looks at her with apathetic exhaustion. “We’re here.”

 

She nods, mouth too dry to form words. The gates open, and they are ushered inside by a worried and curious Chuck. The woman is taken to the med tent, where Jo hopes, somewhere in her bone-tired mind, that she’ll wake up. Someone hands her a canteen full of water, and she resists from draining it immediately, knowing she’d just throw it all up. Between restrained sips of water, she tells Chuck the abridged version of the day’s events. He’s an avid listener and Jo kind of wants to tell him to go fuck himself, but she’s sitting down and she has water and she’s safe, so she can stand his questions for now.

 

“Jo? Honey, are you okay?” It’s her mother, who sprints over with her jacket flapping like wings around her sturdy form. Kind of like an angel, if they were middle-aged bartenders-turned soldiers instead of giant sanctimonious dickheads. “Dean told me what happened.” Ellen drags another chair next to her daughter’s and sighs when she sees Jo’s face. “You look like shit, sweetie.” She pauses, her face softening. “I’m sorry about Ari.”

 

“It’s okay, Mom,” Jo says, leaning into her mother’s arm. She’s so _tired_. “I did what I had to.”

 

Ellen’s mouth turns down at the edges. “I hoped you would never have to kill someone you loved,” she murmurs, half to herself. 

 

For some reason, Jo feels like she’s about to cry. “I’m so tired I’m gonna collapse,” she tells Ellen and Chuck flatly. “I think I’ll head to my cabin now.”

 

“Jo—”

 

She shakes her head and stands, grabbing her mother’s shoulder for balance, then trudges off towards the barracks. (Dean insisted on calling them that, some ingrained military habit from being raised by John Winchester, and nobody cares enough to argue). Theo and Maggie wave at her as she walks by. They hold hands as they sit on the front stoop of their hut and smoke cigarettes, talking and laughing. She and Ari do that—used to do that. Minus the smoking, of course; Ellen would actually kill her if she smelled tobacco on her daughter’s breath. 

 

She walks into her cabin and sits down hard on her cot. The wall swims before her tired eyes. It doesn’t seem real yet, Ari being gone. It feels like he’s just out on a mission and he’ll be back any minute. Any second, the door will swing open and he’ll be there, a weary smile on his face and his gun loosely slung over his shoulder. Any moment now he’ll come back. She just has to stare hard at the door and _will_ him into existence, it’ll be any moment— _fuck_. Jo exhales painfully and feels something in her crumple like a sheet of paper. She curls up on top of her bedsheets, not even bothering to take off her shoes, and tries her best to fall asleep, to give in to her pounding head and aching muscles and lose herself to oblivion. But as exhausted as she is, her brain won’t shut up. It plays cruel what-if scenarios past her like movie trailers: what if she’d kept a closer eye on Ari? What if she were faster? What if she hadn’t been so stupid as to go with Ari when he pulled on her sleeve? What if, what if, what if _... If only_.

 

 _God_. Jo squeezes her knees against her chest and tries not to scream. Or even worse, cry; if she starts, she doesn’t think she’d ever be able to stop.

 

Eventually, after her brain runs out of ammunition, she falls into an uneasy slumber. Her dreams are hazy and dark and full of blood. 

 

…

 

Jo wakes up the next morning with Ari’s name on her tongue. She swallows it painfully when she feels only empty space on the other side of the bed. Sweat cakes her tired body, a sticky and uncomfortable sensation that only increases when she fights off the sheets that had tangled around her during the night. Showers are pretty much obsolete without a reliable source of running water, so she’ll have to take a quick dip in the river while she can. Hot baths are a time-consuming luxury, and the idea of hauling buckets of water to be heated and then poured into a basin just exhausts her more. Unfortunately, this means that she’ll reek of sweat and blood and grime for a few hours. Then again, nobody really smells great these days. One of the worst parts about the Apocalypse: deodorant ran out a long time ago.

 

Jo methodically laces her boots, puts on a black T-shirt, runs her hands half-heartedly through tangled blonde hair. The morning feels unreal, almost; like an old dream. _Keep going_ , she tells herself. _Push through the pain. Don’t you dare go to sleep again._

 

God, she can’t even begin to think about facing Zal.

 

She gets up slowly; her legs almost give out from under her when she stands up, and she has to slam one hand on the dresser to brace herself. Something clatters to the floor—the picture frame, the one with the photo of her dad holding her as a kid. Jo curses, bending down carefully to pick it up, ribs screaming in protest. She holds it for a moment, thumbing over the crease in the corner of the photo. Her father: tall, handsome, strong. Happy. The picture goes back on the mantle.

 

Lucy and Mia give her sympathetic looks when she walks outside, but don’t ask her what happened. They most likely already know. Dean keeps his secrets well, but people talk, and others listen. The air feels heavy. Autumn is coming, and with it, rain. She moves as if caught in a dream, the voices and faces of those around her muted and blurry. A hand claps down on her shoulder, jostling her, forcing her eyes to focus. It’s Ellen.

 

“Breakfast,” Ellen says, a simple statement of fact, and makes Jo sit down with her morning rations. Bread, beans (canned), and bitter coffee all push their way down her gullet. 

 

Sometimes Ellen doesn’t know how to treat her daughter, how to walk the line between too much and not enough. Today, though, she thinks she’s found a good middle ground. Talking can be brutal, can even be cruel if done too soon and without tact. Ellen isn’t good at waiting and she isn’t good at tact, so she brings her daughter breakfast and sits with her under the sun, burning brighter every passing moment. 

 

When Jo is finished, she takes her empty plate and mug to wash. Sara is on dishwasher duty this morning, but she lets Jo into the kitchen and gives her a sponge. Jo plunges her hands into the soapy water and scrubs everything in sight. She closes her eyes and focuses on the good, clean feeling of warm water and suds under her nails, the work ahead of her. Sara and Ellen wash next to her, and they don’t talk. It is silent in the kitchen, save for the gurgle of water down the drain and the occasional clink of plates sliding into the drying rack. 

 

Sara breaks the peace. If not Ellen, it would be Sara. “Jo, I am so sorry.”

 

Jo rinses a fork, the shiny tines catching the light, and she puts it on the rack. “Thanks. For letting me wallow.” She understands that the time for self-pity is over. A morning is all she will get.

 

“Of course.” Sara pauses, choosing her next words carefully. “Hon, who’s the girl you brought back? The red-haired girl, who is she?” The curiosity in Sara’s voice peeks through the caution she wants to convey.

 

“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”

 

All three women jump. Dean leans against the door, thumbs in his pockets and expression unreadable. “Jo, quit washing dishes and come with me. We’ve got a mystery on our hands.”


	2. Part Two: Awakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anna wakes up, and Jo has some questions that only Castiel can answer.

The med tent is empty, save for Dean and the red-haired woman, who still clings to the edge of unconsciousness. For the first time, Jo gets to take a look at her—wide mouth, hollow cheeks, milk-white skin that contrasts wildly with her hair. 

 

“She okay?” Jo asks, noting the feeble heartbeat on the monitor by the bed.

 

Dean sighs. “It’s complicated.” He pauses for a moment, his eyes trailing over the woman’s fragile form. “Her name is Anna.”

 

“Wait, you _know_ her?”

 

“She—” Dean pauses again, struggling with his words. His forehead crinkles. “We met before the Apocalypse. Long-ass story. We—well, it’s not important. I didn’t think she was still alive.”

 

Jo notices the pained softness in his voice as he gazes at her. There’s history between them—complicated history. 

 

“Okay, so… she’s an old friend,” Jo summarizes. “And she’s in a coma. Why am I here?”

 

“You rescued her. I figured you’d want to be here when she wakes up.”

 

There’s a slightly shifty look in his eyes. Something he’s not telling her.

 

“Dean.” Come on, he _has_ to know she’s known him too long to take shit blindly.

 

He gives up under her glare. “Look, the med tent is severely understaffed. The last mission—it brought a lot of injured people. _Our_ people. She’s not one of us, and I can’t expend a ton of resources and people on her. So… now she’s your problem. Congratulations.”

 

“Are you serious?” Jo spits. “You’re sticking me in the med tent? I’m fucking competent, okay, I’ve proved myself over and over to be a good hunter, a good soldier, I’m not some—some _lackey_ you don’t trust to do anything significant. Like, I get it, medical shit is necessary, but I’m not a trained doctor! If she’s so important, why don’t you take care of her?”

 

Dean tightens his jaw, looming over her. “Because the last time I saw Anna, she tried to kill me. I never wanted to see her again, but here we are.”

 

He stalks out of the tent, calling a barely-civil “good luck,” over his shoulder.

 

“Damn it,” she mutters. 

 

He doesn’t trust her because she got Ari killed. That’s what this is about. Punishment duty, keeping the liability out of the way. She looks down at the woman—Anna—who sleeps peacefully, her head lolling on the pillow.

 

“You better be worth it,” Jo tells her.

 

…

 

The thing about caring for a comatose person is that it leaves Jo with her own thoughts for longer than she wants. After wiping Anna’s face, checking her vitals, and struggling with the rudimentary IV system the meds established, she just. Sits. And reads a book, sometimes. It’s hard not to feel resentful towards Dean, towards Anna, towards herself. And, of course, she can’t get Ari out of her head. The silence and solitude of the med tent only makes the aching, gnawing guilt fester instead of dissipate. And every night, she goes back to her empty hut. Alone.

 

It takes five days. Five long, horrible days. 

 

Jo is reading a Ray Bradbury book that she only half-understands when she hears a noise. Her head shoots up, and she sees Anna feebly stirring, her eyelids fluttering. Jo hesitantly approaches, not knowing what to do. Her part of the med tent is devoid of others, and she doesn’t want to leave Anna. 

 

“Hey,” she says quietly. “Anna?”

 

Anna’s eyes snap open, and Jo gives a small, involuntary intake of breath. They are stunningly wide, a dark green that shines impossibly in the light. 

 

“Anna—”

 

“They took it,” Anna rasps, quietly, then louder. “They took it from me, they took my—they took it!”

 

“What? What’re you talking about?” Jo asks, holding her hands up in a placating gesture. “Hey, I’m a friend, don’t worry, I’m not gonna hurt you.”

 

Anna looks at her, wild-eyed and flustered. “Who are you?”

 

“My name is Jo Harvelle. I’m cool, I swear, I’m one of the good guys. I’m human,” she says, hoping it means something to this woman.

 

“Human,” Anna repeats. “Me too.”

 

Jo nods furiously. “Cool. Awesome. Non-humans? Generally not awesome in this, um, climate.”

 

“Where am I?” Anna asks, calming down a little bit. Jo still keeps a safe distance—Anna’s eyes look… different than they should. Brighter. 

 

“You’re safe. You’re in a base with a bunch of people who know how to protect it.”

 

Anna’s eyes shut. “Okay.”

 

Jo takes a deep breath. Adrenaline continues to race through her body. She watches Anna carefully, scanning her for signs of life. Anna, it seems, has gone back to sleep—but it’s a fitful sleep, and she twitches every few seconds, her brow furrowing. It’s safe to assume that she’s out of her comatose state. She doesn’t wake up again that day. Jo stays with her all night instead of going back to her cabin. 

 

In the morning, Anna wakes up again, and she’s a little more lucid this time around. Ellen fetches soup from the kitchen, and Jo informs Dean of Anna’s new status.

 

“Good,” Dean grunts. “I’d talk to her, but I have a supply run in an hour. I’m trusting you to interrogate her. Find out what she knows.”

 

“Sure,” Jo mutters. 

 

 _Right_. ‘I’m trusting you to interrogate her.’ Jo could squeeze someone for information just as well as any male hunter with a stick up his ass.

 

When she gets back to the tent, Anna is sitting up in bed, cradling a steaming mug. She looks up when Jo comes in.

 

“Hello,” she says.

 

“Hi,” Jo replies, suddenly off-balance. “Um, can we talk?”

 

Anna inclines her head, and Jo sits down by the bed. Someone has brushed Anna’s hair, and Jo feels a weird sense of jealousy, like she’s the one responsible for Anna’s wellbeing. It’s no longer a stringy mess, though, and it actually makes Anna look much better. Like she’s a person instead of just a body.

 

Anna’s hands curl around the warm mug of soup. They are worn, with cracked nails and callused fingers; Jo notes this abstractly. 

 

“Thank you for rescuing me,” she says. Her voice is cool, clear, steely. Weak and wrecked as she is, Anna gives off an air of subtle power.

 

“Yeah, no problem,” Jo says, like it’s something she does every day—going to the decimated section of town and pulling attractive strangers from the rubble—which reminds her:

 

“Why the hell were you in that part of their turf? I can understand going on raids, trying to find supplies… but that place is destroyed. There’s nothing there.”

 

Anna looks down into her soup. “I was trying to find something,” she says quietly. “Something that would have changed everything.”

 

Jo sits forward, curiosity piqued. “What are you talking about?”

 

“I think it’s my turn to ask a question.”

 

_You can change the subject, Anna Milton, but I’ll find out what you know eventually._

 

“Okay,” Jo allows, albeit reluctantly. “Shoot.”

 

“What is this place, first of all?” Anna peers into corners like she’s searching for monsters. Jo recognizes that look—it’s been her perennial expression for five years.

 

“It’s called Camp Chitaqua. Army base, safehouse, medical center… whatever we need it to be. Don’t worry; it’s Croat-free. You’re safe.”

 

“Nowhere is safe,” says Anna, a simple statement of fact.

 

Jo snorts. “God knows. But luckily,” she gives the wall next to her a slap, “Good ol’ Camp Chitaqua’s kept me alive so far. I can’t even imagine how you’ve survived for so long on your own.”

 

It’s a sneaky maneuver, to be sure, but she needs to know more about Anna. About why she’s here, what she’s been looking for, who she _is_ , even.

 

Anna gives her a look that screams a sarcastic _nice try_ , but starts to speak regardless. “From the beginning of the outbreak, I knew what was going on. I—there was an incident, a long time ago—I know things that others don’t. It’s very hard to explain; I don’t think I have the time or the energy right now. But I managed on my own for a while. Until—”

 

Anna’s eyes flutter shut and her knuckles go white around the handle of the mug. “I’m sorry. I need to lie down.”

 

Jo blows out a long breath, disappointed. “Yeah, okay. Let me take you back to the med tent.”

 

“Thank you,” Anna says as Jo helps her up. “I feel much better.”

 

“Good. I’ll be back tomorrow, okay? And maybe you can tell me what you were doing in that part of Kansas.”

 

Anna doesn’t say anything. Jo hopes it’s because of the fatigue and not because she’s hiding something. With her luck, it’s probably the latter.

 

…

 

The next day, Anna isn’t in the med tent when Jo arrives. 

 

“Fuck,” Jo swears, and basically sprints to Dean’s cabin. She hates going in there, mostly due to the smell of sweat and sex that permeates the damn place. He doesn’t care about anything except killing Lucifer, and it shows. He barely even shaves these days.

 

The door is already partially ajar. Jo hears raised voices from inside, and hesitates, not barging in as she would otherwise.

 

Dean’s voice is muffled, but she hears the words “the last time we saw each other… _disaster_ … find us before… endangering us all…”

 

Anna’s too quiet to hear much of, but her cool voice is apparent, sounding icier than Jo remembers.

 

The voices suddenly stop. Jo freezes.

 

“Hello?” Dean calls.

 

“Hey!” Jo responds. “It’s me—just wanted to check up, you know.”

 

Anna appears at the door, looking wan. “Jo.”

 

“You shouldn’t be walking around,” Jo says, and she doesn’t mean for it to sound as accusing as it does. She softens her tone a bit. “I mean, you’re still weak.”

 

“Dean just wanted to talk.”

 

“Right.” Jo exhales and fiddles with her belt, feeling awkward. “I should go, then.”

 

“Maybe later you can show me around the camp.”

 

Jo offers her best smile, then turns around and walks back to her cabin. Once she’s there, she closes the door. Then, she punches her wall so hard her fist leaves an indent.

 

“God,” she breathes, on the verge of tears. “Ow.”

 

She _hates_ feeling this way, like a petulant child, too pent-up with rage and sadness to be useful. And god, she misses Ari. It’s been a week and her stomach still feels like a bottomless pit.

 

There’s a knock on the door. 

 

“Jo,” her mother calls. “It’s me.”

 

“Come in,” she says, and Ellen tentatively opens the door. 

 

“Hey, honey.” Her mother sits down on the bed. “I heard that girl woke up.”

 

She _really_ doesn’t want to talk about Anna right now. “Yeah.”

 

“You okay?”

 

Jo’s about to reassure her mom that yeah, she’s fine, nothing to worry about, but something about Ellen’s uncharacteristically soft tone twists something inside of her, and she starts to cry.

 

“Oh, sweetie.” Ellen pulls her close, and Jo leans into her mother’s arms, closing her eyes and feeling the painful release of tears.

 

“Mom—I’m just so—I miss him and—I don’t know, I don’t know what to do…”

 

“Shhh, it’s okay, just cry.”

 

“No,” Jo sobs. “I shouldn’t be like this—I’m sorry—”

 

Ellen hugs her even tighter. “No better way to heal than to cry. God knows I’ve done enough of that myself.”

 

Sometimes, it hits her how grateful she is that her mother is alive.

 

…

 

“Jo,” someone calls, and she stiffens, heart dropping to her shoes. She turns to see Zal, Ari’s older brother, hurrying after her. “Jo, wait.”

 

“Zal, I—I can’t talk right now,” she mutters, deliberately not looking at him. He and Ari—they’ve always looked alike, you see. Two peas in a pod. Two brothers. (And isn’t that always how the story goes? Two brothers, the younger dead and the older—well. The older living, trying to figure out how the world works afterwards.)

 

“Yes, you can,” he retorts, grabbing her shoulder and turning her to face him. He looks older than his thirty-six years.

 

“Okay,” she breathes, forcing herself to meet his eyes. She has to be brave. It’s time to face him. It’s time—and she’s scared, she’s so scared of what he’s going to say to her. But this is something she has to do.

 

“You’ve been avoiding me,” states Zal plainly, hurt crossing his face. 

 

“I’m sorry,” she says, guts twisting with guilt, “I’ve wanted to talk to you for a while, I have, but—it’s so fresh, Zal. It’s been a month but it’s still—I see him in the corner of my eye and think he’s still here and when he’s not—” She breaks off, unable to continue.

 

“I know,” Zal says, and his face is crumpling, losing its careful composure. “I know exactly what you mean.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Jo whispers. “I’m so sorry.” She covers her face. If he cries, she’ll cry, and then where will they be?

 

“For what, Jo? For killing something that wasn’t my brother? I know what Croats are, I know what they do, and if you think that I’d blame you for doing something I can’t even imagine, then I’m ashamed that I’ve presented myself as the kind of man that—fuck, Jo, I’m _grateful_ , I’m so fucking grateful that something wearing my brother’s face isn’t running around out there murdering people.”

 

He’s not crying. He’s deadly serious, eyes intense and urgent on hers. Zal’s admission of forgiveness eases some of the guilt that’s been clawing at her, but she’s never going to forgive herself, and that’s a problem that nothing is going to fix.

 

…

 

“Jo, is there a library I can use here? Are there books, information of any sort?” Anna asks.

 

Jo thinks. “Yeah, I guess we have one. There’s a whole collection of books in Zoe’s cabin. If you ask nicely, she’ll let you look at them. Why?”

 

“Just trying to make sense of things,” Anna says. “You know.”

 

“That makes sense,” Jo agrees, noticing Anna’s careful evasion. _Clever_.

 

“Thanks.” Anna flashes Jo a quick smile and makes for Zoe’s, her olive-green jacket flapping around her tall form.

 

She’s hiding something, Jo knows it. But how to get it out of her?

 

The answer comes a few days later. Anna’s been spending a ton of time at Zoe’s—she’s there every day for hours, flipping through old scrolls and tomes. Jo watches her mouthing as she reads, her brow wrinkled in concentration. When Anna pulls out a particularly heavy book and turns to the page on ancient runes, Jo bursts into the cabin.

 

“Shit!” The book in Anna’s hand thuds to the floor, pages splaying everywhere. “Jo! You scared me!”

 

“Tell me what’s going on,” Jo demands, crossing her arms tightly. “You’ve been acting super suspicious, and I want to know what you know.”

 

“Is it suddenly a crime to read?”

 

“Cut the bullshit,” Jo says. “You’ve been sneaking around camp ever since you got here. I don’t know if anyone else has noticed it, but I sure have, and I’m not gonna let you do—whatever you’re trying to do under our noses.”

 

She glares firmly at Anna, trying to convey just how deadly serious she is. 

 

Anna purses her lips, eyes dropping to the ground. “Jo…”

 

“Anna. Seriously. You gotta tell me. If you don’t, there’s gonna be a lot of eyes on you. I‘m the only one who’s noticed, so far, but I won’t be the last. Secrets don’t keep well in this heat. I won’t tell anyone, I promise, unless you’re planning to kill us all, or something.”

 

A little joke to lighten the mood? Hey, it’s worked before.

 

“Fine.”

 

“Wait, really?”

 

Anna nods reluctantly. “It seems as though I don’t have a choice.”

 

They walk to Jo’s cabin. On the way over, Anna is silent, eyes turned upwards to the sky, as if in prayer. The dust is especially thick today; it swirls around their feet every time they take a step.

 

“Come on.” Jo pulls Anna inside. “Sit. Talk.”

 

Anna perches on the edge of the bed, and looks up at Jo with cautious eyes. She takes a deep breath.

 

“I found something. It’s our key to stopping Lucifer—I know it is.”

 

“What?” Jo exclaims. “You’re only telling me about this _now_?”

 

Anna sighs. “It was… complicated. I didn’t know who to trust. You have to understand, my mind has been foggy—well, for longer than you could imagine. I needed to make absolutely sure I could trust anyone here. But I’ve seen that you are an honest person. I feel as though you have a right to know.”

 

“Well?” Jo prompts, on the edge of her seat. Anna isn’t like any other human she knows. If she didn’t know better, she’d say Anna was an angel, or some other supernatural being; she reminds Jo a little bit of Castiel, of how he was before. “What is it? What did you find?”

 

“Well, there’s one simple problem,” Anna says, frowning. “My memory hasn’t been good for a while—too much to keep track of.”

 

“You’re what, thirty-five? How much do you have to remember?” Jo interjects.

 

Anna smiles slightly, as if amused by a joke that only she gets. “More than you might think. When you found me, I sustained several head injuries, which damaged my brain—and therefore my memory—even further. I only remember a small amount about the information I discovered.”

 

“Hey, anything helps,” says Jo. “We’re desperate—there’s no plan beyond ‘stay alive’ right now.”

 

Anna sighs. “I only remember a few words: ‘Nova Mortis. _Mundus vult decipi_. The weapon.’”

 

Silence hangs in the air as Jo waits for more. “That’s it?”

 

“That’s it,” Anna confirms with a twist of her mouth. “Unfortunately.”

 

“Oh. Well. That’s something, at least.” Jo tries to hide her disappointment. “I should tell Dean about it, right?”

 

“No,” Anna says immediately, something strange burning in her eyes. “You shouldn’t.”

 

Jo wrinkles her brow in confusion. “Why not?”

 

“I—I don’t even know if it’s real, you know? I mean, before we make a big deal out of it we should probably find out what it _is_.”

 

“Okay,” Jo allows. “Makes sense. In that case, we should talk to Castiel. If anyone knows something about this, it’s him.”

 

Anna blinks. Opens her mouth, closes it, then opens it again. “Castiel?” she says quietly.

 

“Oh, right, you don’t know who that is. Um. This may sound crazy, but he’s an ex-angel. He’s a good one, though—on our side and all that. Cas is a little hard to explain. Very smart, very weird. I don’t know. You’ll understand when you meet him.”

 

“Oh,” Anna says softly. “I’m sure I will.”

 

…

 

The next day, Jo takes Anna on a tour of the camp. People give her all sorts of looks—curious, resentful, hungry, admiring—but Anna stares past them. Eventually, she asks Jo if they can visit Castiel.

 

Jo’s mouth twists wryly. “Yeah, he’s probably too stoned to even talk right now, but we can check anyway.”

 

Anna nods, an unreadable expression crossing her face, which Jo interprets as confusion.

 

“Cas is—different,” Jo explains. “He’s an… interesting guy. Sad, really sad. But kind.”

 

“Like you,” Anna says.

 

Something tightens in Jo’s chest. “Why do you say that? I’m fine. I’m not—”

 

Anna shrugs, keeping her eyes on the road ahead. “Just an observation.”

 

“Oh.” Even after they arrive at Castiel’s small cabin, she can’t seem to let it go.

 

She knocks first, because she’s been here too many times to open the door without fair warning—she’s seen some _wild_ shit in Cas’s cabin that she’d rather never see again.

 

There’s some noise from within. “Just a moment,” Cas yells, muffled and breathless. He’s probably in the middle of another drug-fueled orgy.

 

A minute later, the door swings open, and they’re greeted with a shirtless Castiel, panting and smelling like sex, weed, and something else Jo can’t quite distinguish. When he sees them, he stops dead, the color leeching from his cheeks. Like he’s seen a ghost. Jo doesn’t know quite what’s going on. Dean said that he used to know Anna—maybe Cas did, too.

 

“Anna.” His voice is quiet. Shocked. Prepared. “I heard you were—back. Please, come in.”

 

Anna glances warily at Jo, then steps inside.

 

It’s a small, stuffy place; bongs and knives line the walls in equal capacities. There’s a ratty carpet crumpled on the ground and some curtains thrown up, which gives the place both a homey and vaguely creepy air. Jo’s not especially surprised to see Dean Winchester passed out on said carpet, sweaty and half-naked.

 

“Is that Dean lying on the ground?” Anna asks, glancing at Jo with vague alarm.

 

“Yep.” She doesn’t elaborate.

 

“Oh.”

 

“Um, it’s a—a thing. Worst-kept secret in the camp.”

 

“Hey, I heard that,” Cas admonishes from the other side of the room, but he doesn’t seem particularly angry. He doesn’t seem particularly _anything_ , if Jo’s being honest. That makes her kind of depressed—she remembers him from before the world went to absolute shit. She remembers liking him, even though he was an odd mix of strange, intimidating and dorky all at the same time. Now, though, he’s always high or hopped up on whatever drugs he’s managed to score; she’s seen about four unlabeled bottles of pills and a few plastic baggies of weed, along with the empty bottle of cheap whiskey on its side next to Dean. She tears her eyes away.

 

“So, what can I do for you?” Castiel asks. His pupils are too blown to be normal; the bright blue of his eyes is barely visible.

 

Jo glances at Anna, who swallows visibly. “We were wondering if you recognized the phrase: ‘Nova Mortis. _Mundus vult decipi_. The weapon.’”

 

Castiel’s eyes widen slightly, and he leans forward, bracing his arm on the small, wooden coffee table. “Continue.”

 

“Well, I don’t really know the specifics,” Anna flounders. Jo touches her arm lightly, which seems to help a bit. “I woke up with significant chunks of memory completely gone, or at least obscured. All I remember are those words—and that I was looking for something that would put an end to the apocalypse.”

 

She bites her lip. Jo watches her out of the corner of her eye. Now that some of the color has returned to her face, she’s even prettier than before. Not that Jo’s thinking about that—that would be completely inappropriate.

 

“So that’s all you know,” prompts Jo. 

 

“Right.”

 

“Then why were you searching for it in Kansas? It’s a war zone down here—you could have died.”

 

Anna frowns. “I don’t know. That’s one of the hazy parts. Kansas is important, though. I can feel it.” 

 

“Nova Mortis,” Castiel mutters. “I’ve heard that before. Where have I heard that before?”

 

He thinks for another few minutes, eyes closed in concentration. Jo misses the Cas that magically seemed to know all the answers, but he’s gone. What they have is a stoned ex-angel, wrecked and broken but trying his best.

 

“Aha!” Cas snaps his fingers.

 

“You remembered?” Jo asks hopefully.

 

“No, but I know how we can find out.”

 

…

 

“Are you sure that this will work?” Anna questions nervously.

 

“Nope,” Castiel replies, securing the restraints around her arms. “But it’s the best shot we have.”

 

Jo puts a hand on Anna’s bony shoulder. “It’ll be fine,” she says reassuringly, trying to convince herself as well.

 

Anna gives her a weak smile in response. 

 

“This will hurt,” Cas promises almost cheerfully, and Jo winces.

 

Anna closes her eyes tightly. “Just get it over with.”

 

The streaks of lamb’s blood on her face almost glimmer in the dim light. Castiel presses a thumb to her forehead, muttering in Enochian. Anna shrieks, thrashing around, and Jo inhales sharply.

 

“Show me,” Castiel commands. What little of the angel that remains inside him shines through, a forceful and demanding presence. “Show me your memories.”

 

Another painful scream rips out of Anna’s throat. Her fingers scrabble at the restraints. 

 

“ _Show me_.” Sweat beads Castiel’s forehead and drips down his temples.

 

Anna’s eyes open, suddenly, and Jo gasps. They’re _glowing_ , an unearthly bright blue piercing the darkness.

 

As soon as it appears, the light dies, and Castiel collapses. Jo rushes to help him up. He’s panting, pale, shocked. She gets him to a chair, and undoes Anna’s restraints. Anna groans, rotating the stiffness out of her wrists.

 

“Are you okay?” Jo asks both of them. 

 

They both nod in tandem, which is a little creepy.

 

“I’m drained,” Cas says. “I need to replenish what trace of my grace I have left. Ha. ‘Trace of my grace.’ That rhymes.”

 

Anna rubs her face. “I feel okay,” she says. “Just tired. And my head hurts.”

 

Jo passes her a water bottle. “So?” she asks, trying to mask the burning curiosity she feels.

 

She and Anna turn to Castiel.

 

“Well,” Cas says. What little light there was in his eyes seems to have been snuffed out by whatever he saw. “It’s a weapon that will defeat Lucifer. And it exists.”

 

Jo almost collapses in relief. “That’s great news. God. That’s wonderful news, Cas, why aren’t you fucking jumping for joy?”

 

“There’s a problem. A complication, if you could comprehend how vastly I am understating how much of a complication this happens to be.”

 

“Well, what _is_ it?” Anna urges.

 

“The weapon,” Castiel says, “is in Heaven.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! A longer update this time--I'm going to try to update regularly, but I've been insanely busy lately.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos motivate me more than anything else in this world so if you want more soon please consider leaving a comment :)


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